week ten.

at least you and i
had a lovely walk along the beach.

you felt how hot the sand was underneath my city toes
you smelt how different the air was in that part of the world
and you saw how much people wanted you.

you little bean,
our strange fruit and vegetable seedling
how you fought with what you were given
(or did you fight at all?)

i died seven times in those two days.
all the people trying to see how you were –
through my veins, through my skin, through my legs, through maths, through computers,
through a make-shift floorlamp that wouldn’t bend the way he wanted it to.

and when you left, there was a sudden emptiness
like popping a balloon – so present and whole,
then pain, then numbness, then air.

my mother’s words whispered fiercely in my ear
as she clutched my head against her womb.

there were no instructions for after.
at the start there were trees.
folders upon folders of paperwork, and books, and letters, and forms.
your last chapter was printed on a double sided A4 page
and silent messages that said ‘it happens to everyone’.

you, the never acquired
the never developed, the never photographed.
the silent grief because noone wants a public one.

so quietly i bury your shoes in the dark of my closet
i bury your socks in the mess of the spare room
i give you flowers when i clutch my heart
so it doesn’t leak out from my mouth from dying

an eight time, a ninth time, a tenth.
i only give ten to the world.
i only gave ten to the world.

when we’re alone, i give you everything.

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